Part II: Race Shool

The International Race School, home to the hopes and dreams of every up and coming hover car racer, was situated at the end of the world.

On the island of Tasmania, dangling off the bottom east corner of Australia, racing was the way of life. The entire island – all 62,000 square metres of it – was owned by the International Race School. The story of how that came to be was legendary, of course. Alarmed at the ever-declining population of Tasmania, the Australian government were uncertain of how to act, or whether to act at all. Once the population dipped below 20,000, they decided to sell the land off, in a move that outraged environmentalists the world over, considering the sheer amount of natural beauty and rainforest on the island. To add further insult, it was bought by a gas and oil company, all set to mine the land for it's resources.

Then, scant years later, came hover technology, and the collapse of the oil trade.

The island was bought by a billionaire visionary, Henry Campbell, and his group of racer friends, and together they built the Race School over a period of a decade. To the delight of environmentalists, they even worked to preserve the natural landscape, rather than exploit it. The venture benefitted them enormously; Tasmania was now the second most popular tourist destination in the world, just behind the Pyramids of Giza, and after only ten year of operating, the Race School was the most prestigious in the world.

And now, Dean and Sam Winchester were heading straight for it.

"I'm telling you Sam, we don't have to do this, we can just get in the Impala and drive there," Dean hissed as they took off their backpacks and put them on the trays. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Dean, not even you could drive to the other side of the world without a pit stop," he said, and stepped through the metal detector. He smiled back at Dean when it stayed silent. "It's just a plane, Dean," he continued. "I mean, it's basically just a really big hover car, how can you be afraid of it?"

"I'm not afraid!" Dean hissed, and went through the metal detector. No beeps. He breathed a sigh of relief, then cuffed Sam over the back of the head. "I'm just stressed out. I mean, I'm basically getting in a hover car without knowing any of the driver's stats. How long have they been driving? Do they handle turns well? Will they keep their head in an emergency? That's scary, dude. I don't know how you can just sit there behind me when I drive," he added. They collected their backpacks and made for the Departures lounge of Los Angeles International Airport.

"I trust you," Sam said simply. Dean let it drop.

Their flight into Tasmania would board in around 50 minutes. Sam had dropped into the first armchair he saw and instantly pulled out his laptop to take advantage of the free wi-fi, so Dean started walking in the direction of the Gates. If he was going to be on a plane for ten hours, he might as well stretch his legs.

It was around 4pm, so the airport was bustling with people. He ended up pacing, unwilling to leave Sam alone in a crowded and unfamiliar airport, walking twenty metres from Sam before heading back and walking another twenty metres the other way. Every time Sam caught him looking over, he rolled his eyes so hard Dean was pretty sure they were going to pop out.

I'm not a baby! Sam mouthed when Dean passed him for the third time. Dean smirked and made a cradling motion with his arms as he kept walking. Sam replied with a rude hand gesture.

Dean threw his head back and laughed aloud, and then he crashed into another person.

The girl staggered back, muttering "sorry, sorry!" as she clutched her handheld gaming device to her chest. "Wasn't looking where I was going, sorry, shoot," she continued, then shut the device and frowned at it. "You broke my streak," she complained. Dean held up his hands.

"Sorry," he said. Then, out of curiosity, "What game is it?"

"Fighter Pilots V.2" she said immediately. "Why, you play?" She tilted her head and considered him, brushing a few strands of bright red hair off her face.

"Nah, but my brother does," he said dismissively. He held out a hand. "I'm Dean Winchester."

She shook it. "Charlie Bradbury," she said. "You look around my age, and you haven't got a parent with you, so I assume you're heading to the Race School?"

"Uh, yeah," he replied, frowning. "Driver."

"Awesome. I'm a Mech Chief."

"Really?" She didn't look it. Her hands were clean and smooth, and her shoulders were thin – most of the Mech Chiefs he knew, male and female, had big hands, big shoulder and arms, and big mouths. Charlie didn't have any of those, except maybe the big mouth. Even Jo, slim as she'd been when they'd met two weeks back, had had the tell-tale broad shoulders and firm arms of a mechanic. Charlie held up her unblemished hands.

"I know, I don't look it, right?" she said wryly. "I'm into the programming side, but I can do a seven second pit stop if I have to."

"Seven seconds?" The average in amateur circles was ten, while semi-pro mostly did eight. Seven seconds was Pro Circuit stuff. "Well in that case, wanna come sit with me and my brother? He's my navigator."

"Wicked," she said happily, and followed him back to where Sam was sitting.

Dean sprawled in his chair, eyes closed and head back, listening to Sam and Charlie's enthusiastic chatter.

"I'm just saying, I don't think he should have taken the project on if he was just gonna change anything he didn't like and cover it by shouting "artistic license!" at anyone who objected," Charlie was arguing.

"It was his project, he had a right to make it how he wanted!" Sam insisted. "Besides, everything he left out and everything he put in had a purpose, it wasn't like he just decided to cut stuff for shits and giggles."

"Language," Dean said automatically. Sam ignored him and kept up his rabid defense of Peter Jackson and his Lord of the Rings film trilogy while Charlie mercilessly attacked it. Their voices were heated, but they were very obviously having a blast.

Dean was in no way jealous.

He and Charlie had talked shop for the first ten minutes or so, Sam injecting every now and then. He'd described the Impala, leaving Charlie cooing and demanding to see it when they arrived at the school. Then Sam had to go asking her about her gaming device, which led to them discussing gaming for fifteen minutes, and then that led to a literary discussion of all things, at which point his brother and their newest friend turned absolutely rabid. Dean had given up following after five minutes of references to some letters Tolkien had apparently written and something called Queer Theory, and after another ten minutes they'd arrived at a heated debate over book versus film.

"All I'm saying is, if the guy's as big a fan as he supposedly is- ,"

"Oh hey, would ya look at that, we're boarding," Dean interrupted. Sam glared at him and shouldered his bag. "Charlie, where are you sitting?"

"Oh! Um…" she fumbled for her ticket and squinted at it. "Seat 12F."

Dean grinned and held up his own. "I guess you'll have to keep talking to the Sammich over here then," he said, putting on a sympathetic tone and ignoring Sam's indignant squawk at the little-used childhood nickname. His ticket read Seat 12D, while Sam's read 12F.

"Awesome! Come on, let's board, bitches," she said happily, picking up her own backpack and slinging it across her shoulder. Dean exchanged a pleased smile with Sam, and they followed after.

Unfortunately, even though Dean's nerves had left while he was distracted by Charlie, they returned in full force once they took their seats on the plane. It was a relatively small plane, around 90 seats, with six to a row. Since there were only around 30 or so passengers on board, only a third of the plane was occupied.

He was in seat D, so he had aisle on his left and Sam on his right. Sam was making himself comfortable, folding the blanket around himself and examining the screen in the headrest in front of him with interest. Dean had simply shoved his pillow behind his back and sat stock still, gripping the arm rests so hard his knuckles turned white.

When the seatbelt lights turned on and the flight attendant's voice came over the speakers, Dean was starting to sweat. Sam finally noticed and rested a hand over Dean's. "It's okay, Dean, they wouldn't let someone who wasn't perfect fly the plane."

"I don't care how perfect they are, I still don't trust anyone to fly me except me," Dean said through gritted teeth. He jerked his hand out of Sam's grip, but at his hurt expression, he put it back on the hand rest. He was having a hard enough time dealing already; Sam getting upset would only make him panic even more.

He closed his eyes and focused on keeping his breathing even. Ten seconds later the engines started roaring to life and he felt the electro-mag drives on the underside of the wings engage. Charlie was silent next to the window; obviously she'd taken Sam's lead on staying quiet.

The plane was moving now, heading towards the runway, and Dean was beginning to gasp for breath when a hand gripped his shoulder tight and a voice said, "If you breathe deeper, it will be over more quickly."

Dean twisted his head and stared. The voice had come from the seat one row behind him, across the aisle. The boy sitting there was pale, with a mop of dark hair almost as messy as Sam's (although cut much shorter), and was looking at Dean with intense, dark blue eyes. "Excuse me?" Dean wheezed.

"You are having a panic attack," the boy said. His voice was low, gravelly, and it was doing odd things to Dean's mind – already his heart was slowing down, more oxygen reaching his brain as his breathing slowed too. "You must breathe deeply, and stop thinking of the plane."

"Bit hard to do that, buddy," he replied, heart speeding up again as they reached the start of the runway. The engines were deafening now, and Sam was craning his neck to see who Dean was talking to, and as the plane began it's breathtakingly quick journey down the runway, the boy across the aisle behind him squeezed his shoulder and said, "You mustn't be afraid. No harm will come to you or your siblings here."

And, somehow, it worked.

By the time the plane had lifted above the airport and begun turning in a long circle, Dean had calmed down completely and relaxed his death grip on Sam's hand. He nodded at his little brother who was staring at him with a relieved expression, then leant around him to give Charlie a thumbs up. She grinned back at him then turned back to the window, and Dean twisted in his seat to look at the boy across the aisle again. His hand was still on Dean's shoulder. "Thanks," he said with a frown. "How'd you know what to do?"

"I used to get panic attacks a lot," the boy replied calmly. Dean could feel Sam twisting in his seat, trying to get a look at who Dean was talking to.

"Anyway, thanks," Dean replied, throwing the guy a grin that was hopefully charming instead of panicked. Judging by the guy's suddenly red cheeks, it probably was. Still smiling, Dean turned back to his brother.

"Alright, we got a ten hour flight ahead of us. What movie do you wanna watch first?"

After watching one movie together, they'd ended up playing a first person shooter game together, winner versus Charlie. Sam won, of course, but he was shocked and dismayed to find that he lost spectacularly to Charlie.

"Queen of the console, bitches!" she crowed as the point tally flashed onto the screen.

While they battled it out, Dean took discrete glances down the aisle at the guy who'd talked him down from his panic attack. He was reading a thick novel the whole flight, except for brief conversation with the man sitting next to him. The other guy looked a couple of years older than Dean, and had tawny brain hair. He figured they were brothers; they didn't look very much alike, but neither did he and Sam.

The flight was direct to the Race School, so only students and a few parents were on the flight. Since the school's average number of students per year was around 90 (30 drivers, 30 navigators and 30 Mech Cheifs), they were bound to come into contact at some point. He wondered if they'd get along.

He fell asleep six hours in, Sam snoring on his shoulder and Charlie intently watching a movie on her screen.

Landing was easier than taking off. Sam determinedly held his hand for the whole time, despite Dean's protests that he was "fine now, Sammy, if you wanted to hold my hand you could just ask". He sneaked a glance back to the blue eyed boy, and this time caught his intense gaze. He smiled reassuringly, as Dean felt even better than before.

As soon as the plane was fully stopped, Dean was out of his seat and grabbing his and Sam's things from the overhead compartment. Charlie had been too paranoid to put her things (including a very fancy looking laptop) in storage space, and was pulling it out from under her seat as Dean threw Sam's backpack to him. Sam caught it and glared. "Be careful, Dean," he admonished.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered. "Let's just get off the hunk of metal, okay?"

Sam, perhaps wisely, didn't reply. The three of them strode down the aisle towards the exit before most of the other passengers were out of their seats.

The International Race School's airport was a fair distant from the actual school, around 20 minutes by bus. The bus ride was infinitely better on Dean's nerves than the plane, although he still would have preferred to drive himself. But the Impala was on the steadiest cargo ship available, along with the rest of the American students' cars, making its way across the Pacific Ocean. It would arrive the next day, and the day after that was the official first day of Racing School.

When the bus pulled up outside the school, they made their way off and stood in front of the Administration building, clutching their backpacks and gazing in awe.

The building was the epitome of sleek and modern – glass paneling, with sharp lines and a silver gleam in the harsh Australian sun. Sam came to stand next to Dean and he automatically put his arm around him.

"We made it, Sammy," he said with disbelief. Sam didn't even protest the nickname.

"I can't believe we're actually here," he replied. He sounded bewildered.

"You and me both, man."

The opaque doors of the building slid open, and Chuck Shurley stepped out, looking at the crowd of 30 teenagers nervously. "You must be the, ah, American students?" he questioned. Everyone nodded slowly. "Good. Uh, follow me?"

They filed into the building, eyes wide, eagerly taking everything in. Suspended from the ceiling inside the sparsely decorated room was the legendary H-1: the original hover car. Nearly everyone in the group craned the necks backwards to keep it in sight as they walked across the room, directly under it.

They were led to a small antechamber type room, which led onto a small corridor. "Your rooms are through there," Shurley said. "You can go and put your things there, and your other bags will be brought up in half an hour or so. Lunch will be at 3, and dinner at 7. I'm going to call out your names, and then you'll come and collect your keys and a map, okay? Okay. Team Azazel, driver Terrance?"

Azazel pushed past Dean, slamming his shoulder into Dean's, making him stumble and bump into a dark haired girl who gave him a wicked glare.

"Mech Chief Bradbury?"

He and Sam waved to Charlie as she walked over to get her keys, sending a quick Vulcan Ta'al over her shoulder. Since she hadn't come with a team, she'd room by herself for the year, unless she requested to be placed with her assigned team mates.

The names continued until Shurley came to, "Team Milton, driver – uh, Castiel?"

The blue eyed boy from the plane stepped forward, followed by the tawny haired guy. He neatly took his keys and map, and Dean could have sworn his eyes met Dean's for a moment before he was off down the corridor. He didn't realize he was staring until Sam tugged on his sleeve.

"Come on, Dean, they called us! Let's go!" he whispered, pulling Dean forward. Dean shook him off and gave him a shove down the hall, grabbing his keys from Shurley as they passed.

"Okay, little brother, let's see what these new digs are like."

The new digs looked good.

There were three apartment blocks on the school campus for the students' use. Two of the buildings had five floors, with six apartments per floor. The other was a low, long two-storey bunker with ten rooms on each floor. The two apartment blocks were generally reserved for team members who chose to live together, whereas the bunker was for students (almost always Mech Chiefs) who came to the school without a team. Dean and Sam's apartment was on the third floor of Block 2, and as Dean clicked the key into the lock and pushed the door open, he whistled lowly.

The front door opened onto a wide, spacious living area, with an overstuffed couch and two armchairs arranged around a wide screened TV. There was even a fireplace on the left wall. They could see the equally open kitchen from the doorway, which practically gleamed with modern counters and a slick looking fridge and oven. There were three doors off the back wall of the living area, presumably the two bedrooms and the bathroom. Sam was gaping at the sight; Bobby's house was great, and not exactly tiny, but it was also cluttered and very old – this was the very antithesis of the house they'd lived in for five years. Even the hazy memories of the house they'd lived in with their mom couldn't compare.

Dean hitched his backpack and nudged Sam. "Pick a bedroom and let's dump our stuff, Sam, I need to recharge."

Sam's brows drew together and he looked up at Dean with sad eyes. "Are we gonna have separate rooms?" he asked.

"What? No, of course not. I meant pick one for both of us, stupid." Sam's smile was blinding. He ran towards the bedrooms, picking the one on the left first and slamming the door open. Dean followed behind.

The left bedroom had one King sized bed, so they went through the bathroom joining the rooms and surveyed the other. There were two singled beds, and Sam instantly put dibs on the one against the wall, furthest from the bathroom. Dean dumped his backpack on the table next to the other bed and stretched, then checked his phone's time. It was still on American time, reading 11:48pm, even though was mid-afternoon where they were now.

Sam had settled on his bed, pulling out his laptop and tapping in the wi-fi password written on the card on the bedside table. "I'm gonna take a nap," Dean decided. "Keep an eye out for the guys bringing our bags up, okay Sammy?"

"You can't take a nap, Dean," Sam replied, rolling his eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "We have to acclimatise to the new time zone, otherwise you won't be able to- ,"

"Yeah, whatever," Dean grumbled. He collapsed belly first onto the bed, not taking off his shoes. "Wake me up for dinner."

Dean could feel Sam's eye roll before he fell asleep, dead to the world in moments.

Sam woke Dean up two minutes before 7pm and laughed as Dean ran out the door, swearing loudly. He pushed through the dining hall's doors five minutes later, still fuming, and quickly scooped food onto his plate while the rest of the students – all prompt and on time, of course – watched him, whispering. This was the part he knew was coming, the thing he'd been planning on shielding Sam from; the Winchesters, son of the multi Grand Slam winner John Winchester, subject to every gossiper without a life. He scanned the tables and walked over to the least occupied one, head down.

The fact that the blue eyed boy from the plane and his brother were sitting there was just coincidental, he told himself.

"Seat free?" he asked, setting his tray down. The blue eyed guy smiled and made a 'go ahead' gesture, while the older one just looked him over.

"Not gonna network with the rest of your elite buddies over there?" he sneered, jerking a head to the other tables. Dean glanced over and wasn't surprised to see Azazel surrounded by other students – although he was surprised to see a young blonde girl sitting next to him, laughing and chatting closely with him.

"Didn't realise eighteen year olds could be elites," Dean replied. He stabbed a French fry – the label on the buffet had called them 'chips', weird – and chewed it violently. He was suddenly very aware that he'd only eaten one of the three meals served on the plane, giving his other two to Sam for him to pick over. "And none of them are exactly buddies," he added, sneaking another look at Azazel. This time Azazel was looking back at him. He spoke a few words to the people around him and they all roared with laughter. Dean turned back to his dinner and viciously cut into his steak, incredibly glad that Sam had chosen to stay in the room, since he'd eaten a big lunch while Dean was asleep. He shoved a chunk of meat into his mouth and chewed. The blue eyed boy across the table wrinkled his nose and Dean felt himself blush. He put his knife and fork down, swallowed the food and held out a hand.

"Dean Winchester," he said to the blue eyed guy. "Driver."

"Castiel Milton," he replied, shaking the outstretched hand after a hesitation. "Also driver."

His brother snorted, but shook Dean's hand anyway. "Like we didn't already know your name," he said disdainfully, but then added, "Gabriel. I'm this guy's nav." He nudged Castiel, who muttered something and shoved back. Definitely brothers.

They went back to eating, but after a minute, Dean couldn't help but ask. "Do people… like, know me, here?" He tried to sound indifferent, but instead sounded a little desperate. Gabriel's expression hardened.

"Yeah, don't worry, you're sure to get all the fawning John Winchester's son deserves," he answered, voice harsh.

"Gabriel," Castiel admonished softly. Gabriel subsided. Dean poked his food around on his plate for a moment, and then continued speaking, not meeting their eyes.

"It's just, I can deal with everyone being all… whatever, about me," he explained, waving a hand, "but I was kinda hoping Sammy – my little brother, I mean – wouldn't have to put up with it, y'know? Kid's only thirteen," he ended lamely.

Gabriel was looking softer, now. "I like you, Winchester," he said eventually, as if he hadn't been glaring Dean down only moments before. "The press won't be hounding on him, if that's what you mean – you're older, and the driver, so they're gonna care a lot more about you than some snotty little navigator. Hey," he said to Dean's sudden fierce look. "No offense or anything, I just remember when Cassie here was thirteen." He nudged Castiel again. This time Castiel nearly shoved him off the bench, but Gabriel just laughed. "Anyway," he continued, sobering again, "The other students here are a whole 'nother story. I don't mean to bust your bubble, kid, but having a dad like yours won't gain you any friends now that you've snubbed the Rich and the Famous table over there," he said, waving a fork towards the table Azazel was sitting at. "They're gonna be out for your blood, trying to knock you down a peg, and they're gonna be at the both of you to do it. So keep an eye out for him."

"You don't have to tell me that," Dean snapped. Gabriel shrugged.

"And it doesn't help that he's the youngest here," he added. "Thirteen, yeah? Youngest at the school in years. I'm guessing he's a complete brain, then."

"He's a goddamn genius," Dean said, pride creeping into his voice. Sam always said he sounded like someone's mom when he started going on like this, and they both quietly ignored the obvious reply. "Gonna get into the best universities in the country when he's old enough."

Old enough to quit racing. Old enough to leave Dean behind in the dust.

"In any case, the other navs and some of the Mechs won't like that," Gabriel replied. "I'll keep an eye on him around the others, if you want," he suggested. Dean frowned.

"Dude, no offense, but I met you like… five minutes ago. I ain't trusting you with my baby brother."

"None taken. I'll keep an eye on him anyway."

"I apologise," Castiel broke in suddenly. Dean jumped. He'd almost forgotten he was even there, distracted as the topic of Sam made him. "John Winchester is not a familiar name. I gather he is your father, but is he a racer of some sort?"

Dean stared. "We're not a racing family," Gabriel casually, smirking faintly. "He's not really up to speed with the whole history of it yet."

Castiel looked genuinely apologetic, as if his lack of knowledge of John Winchester was anything but a blessing to Dean, who'd lived in his father's shadow his entire life.

"Don't worry about it, Cas," he said. Castiel tilted his head at the nickname but didn't protest. "He just won a couple of races. Nothing big."

Gabriel boggled at his dismissal of the legendary John Winchester and opened his mouth, but was thankfully interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Dean! Almost didn't see you over here," Charlie said, setting her tray next to Dean's and sitting down. "Charlie Bradbury," she added, shaking first Gabriel then Castiel's hands enthusiastically. Gabriel looked as amused as Cas was confused.

"Are you Dean's sister?" he asked politely. Dean's face twisted.

"No?" he said. "We just met, like, this morning at the airport. Or however long ago that was. Where'd you get sister from, dude?" he asked incredulously. Cas lowered his eyes.

"You seemed close," he muttered. "And as you and your brother do not look similar, I assumed the three of you were siblings via adoption, or otherwise not through blood. I apologise."

"Dude, don't apologise, Dean's an awesome brother," Charlie argued. "Sam couldn't shut up about him on the plane." Dean flushed, turning what was likely a very ugly red.

"I should not have assumed," Cas repeated stubbornly. Gabriel rolled his eyes.

"He gets like this sometimes," he groaned. Dean went to grab his hand over the table, actually stretching a hand out before remembering that people who met ten minutes beforehand didn't actually do that, and snatched it back. Damn Sam and his touchy-feely ways, he'd made Dean forget that not everyone needed physical contact every five minutes. Gabriel gave him the stink eye.

"Seriously Cas, it's fine," he said instead. "We're bros, aren't we Charlie?" Charlie nodded happily, mouth full of steak. "So you were kind right."

"That is good to know," Cas murmured, and smiled. It was the first time he'd done so during dinner. They finished the meal in comfortable silence, Dean marvelling in the warm feeling Cas' smile had given him.

After bidding the others goodnight, Dean finally got back to his and Sam's rooms and hour and a half after he'd left. "I bought grub!" he called out, nudging the door shut behind him and heading for the bedroom. "Shoulda let you starve, it'd serve you right for waking me up two freaking minutes before- ," he broke off.

Sam was lying on his front on the bed, cheek on the book he'd been reading when Dean had left, making small whuffling noises every time he breathed out. Dean leaned against the door frame and took in the sight for a moment, one he'd seen a hundred times before; Sam passed out on his laptop, Sam collapsed on the couch with homework, Sam snoring with a book over his face. Smiling, he moved over to the bed and gently pulled the book free of Sam's face. Sam made a small noise before opening one eye blearily.

"What time 'zit?" he asked, very obviously still mostly asleep.

"Time for to go to bed, that's what," Dean replied quietly. He rolled Sam over quickly and expertly lifted him up, slipping his hands under Sam's shoulders and knees in practiced motions.

"'m not a baby," Sam protested sleepily, even as he leant his head against Dean's chest.

"Course you are." He carefully used one hand to pull back the covers. "Though you are getting a little big for this bit," he grunted, hitching Sam up before placing him back on the bed and drawing the covers over him. He was asleep before Dean had even put him down.

Dean went and showered, enjoying the high pressure jets and scalding hot water before drying off and changing into boxers and a t-shirt. He stepped out of the bathroom still drying his hair and flipped the lights off. Screw acclimatising, or whatever Sam said; he was tired, and he was going to go to bed at half past eight if he wanted to. He was a goddamn International Race School student. He grinned to himself and threw the towel back into the bathroom, then got under the covers and closed his eyes.

He was still tossing and turning half an hour later, unable to relax in the unfamiliar room, when Sam rolled out of his own bed and padded his way across to Dean's. Once Sam had crawled under the covers and attached his octopus limbs around him, Dean was asleep in two minutes.